Wanna Know How Bad I Suck?

I just let two really, really important birfdays pass with nary a word.  I mean, I know I’ve neglected many birthdays this year, but this? This is unimaginable.  UnTHINKable.  My favorite bloggy couple, Biff & Tiff (who met via the innernets, by the way and who made it legal this past January), both had May birthdays, and darn if I didn’t let both of them go by without acknowledging them.

That, my friends, is how bad I suck.

If you are so inclined, please help me make it up to them by dropping by their respective sites and wishing them well.  And offering them your sympathies for their choice in friends.

Sigh.

 

So, Y’all…This Really Happened

Interesting things can happen when your dog dies.

You all know about Champ. We miss him terribly.  But I don’t think the humans in the family miss him as much as Lucky, our black lab, does.  She’s miserable.  And she needs a buddy.  We weren’t ready to invest the time (and certainly the emotion) into getting another dog already, but we’re worried about Lucky.  So, it’s been tentative.  We look, we stop, we grieve a little. We look some more.

Friday, Mr. Nerd decided to stop at a home near where we live.  There had been a hand-lettered sign advertising AKC registered German Shepherd puppies.  So he figured he’d take a look.

And here, folks, is where the story gets interesting.

Mr. Nerd pulled into the driveway, where he was motioned where to park by a woman at the front door.  He approached the house.  The woman apparently (ha!) knew what he was there for.  She told him to come in.  He followed her in.  As soon as they got inside the house, she locked and deadbolted the door.  At that point, Mr. Nerd just wrote that off as her being alone at home and being cautious.  (Yeah.  With a strange man.  What-EVER.)  She proceeded down the hall.  Mr. Nerd hesitated, but given that the puppies were new, he assumed they were in a box in a bedroom.  Mmm hmmmm.

They entered the bedroom.  Mr. Nerd stood in the doorway, looking around for the puppies.  PuppyMama turned and sat on the bed.

Smiled.

Reached over and closed the blinds.

Did you catch that?  REACHED OVER AND CLOSED THE BLINDS.

Mr. Nerd retreated.  PuppyMama said, “You’re not nervous, are you?”

Mr. Nerd steeled himself, looked her dead in the eye, and said, “I am here. To. Look. At. The. Puppies.”

PuppyMama answers, “Oh.  They’re outside.”  She left the room, followed by a shaken Mr. Nerd.

“We have three females and one male left.  What’s your name, by the way?”

Mr. Nerd gave her a fake name and proceeded toward his truck.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Yeah. Right.

 

“In raising my children, I have lost my mind but found my soul.” *

Wishing all of you a very happy Mothers’ Day.

For those that are missing your own mothers, or for those who are missing their children, you’re in my heart today.

For those of you that aren’t mothers (in the literal sense), I wish it for you as well. Because your need to nurture — whether it be pets, plants, the earth, the sick, or other living things — makes you a mother as well.

(*Lisa T. Shepherd)

 

Enough Said

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again…

 

Hell Hath No Fury…

You bastard.  You saw me.  You heard me.  You looked right at me as I started running down the hall (yes, in em-effin’ heels) calling out to you to hold the elevator.  You looked right at me, and then you got on the elevator and let the doors close.

I never liked you.  I always saw you as an arrogant little pr*ck.  In your pricky little car.  Or when you rode your bike to work but chose to wear that full unitard getup and walk into the building.  But I chose to ignore you.

But now?  I’m pissed.  And I’ll let you know – eventually – one way or the other.

In the meantime, I’d like to introduce you to my group of innernet friends.  They’re brutal.  And in my comments, they will assist me in wishing upon you every discomfort.  I’m warning you now — this could get pretty miserable.

Okay, friends.  It’s up to you.  Please enter your punishment/plague/affliction upon this insufferable gentleman in my comments section.  Feel free to be creative.

I’ll start.

To the jackass who didn’t hold the elevator, I wish upon you:

• A raging case of jock itch with a side order of painful hemorrhoids.
  

 

March 1, 1999 – April 23, 2009

According to the AKC, he was “RayRay’s Champagne Taste.”  To us, he was “Champ,” a loyal friend for ten years.

“Well done, good and faithful servant.”

 

Cleanup on Aisle 3

I am one hot mess.  I’ve got so much you-know-what coming from God-knows-where it’s a wonder I can even function these days.  Which brings me to my point:  I’m not functioning.  Not very well, anyway.

In a nutshell, I have a sick doggie – our sweet, 10-year-old German Shepherd – who is going pretty fast.  Not good.

Then there was the too-horrible-to-bear news of the sudden loss of two children in my blogworld as well as the punch-me-in-the-guttedness of a suicide of a student – an incredible kid – at my son’s high school.  The latter took its toll on the entire family in a way I’ve never seen.

Add to the mix an opportunity – heck, a likelihood – of leaving the comfort of the position I’ve held for 21 years (and which I love) to take an administrative position.  A position which holds more “title,” if you will, more money, and the opportunity to do something completely different.   Completely.

And it’s making me miserable.

Why, you ask*?

Because I didn’t seek it out.  Because I was happy doing what I was doing.  Because I love my office and my coworkers and the niche I’ve created for myself.

So why go, you ask?

Because I have the opportunity to move into an administrative position and make the salary that is not, and would not, be available to me in my current position.  Because my husband’s job hinges on a grant, year after year, that may or may not get approved from one year to the next.

So what’s best for me, personally, is not what’s best for my family.

Also, I have a suddenly grown 14-year-old who is suddenly graduating from middle school and who is suddenly going to be a high schooler.  And I’m in charge of the awards dinner.  You know, with all the free time I have.  Then, I have a 17-year-old that is about to be a senior and who has no. Earthly. Idea. What.To.Do.With.His.Life. (I’ve suggested, rather politely, that he needs to figure out what to do about his English grade before he figures out what to do about his life.)

Emotional much?

Oh, I got stuff.

(*Assuming, arguendo, that you do ask.  Or would.  Ya know.)